<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>Direct Hit by colonel_bastard</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25978765">Direct Hit</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/colonel_bastard/pseuds/colonel_bastard'>colonel_bastard</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Barry (TV 2018)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Biting, Blow Jobs, Bodily Fluids, Claiming, Codependency, Facials, Finger Sucking, M/M, Messy, Oral Fixation, Possessive Behavior, Power Imbalance, Self-Esteem Issues, Service Submission, Subdrop, Subspace</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 11:07:15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,870</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25978765</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/colonel_bastard/pseuds/colonel_bastard</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>It happens on accident and without warning. Maybe Barry was too far gone and missed the signal— maybe they were both too far gone to realize it was this close— either way Barry has just pulled back for a last gulp of air when he feels a sudden splatter on his cheek and knows instantly that it’s too late.</i>
</p>
<p>Pre-series. An unexpected mess leaves Fuches feeling possessive and Barry feeling, well, possessed.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Barry Berkman/Monroe Fuches</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>35</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Direct Hit</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>do you ever get embarrassed by the self-indulgence of your own writing because uhhhhhh i was editing this while peeking through my fingers lmao</p>
<p>just in case you thought i was kidding here's the song i was listening to on a loop while i worked on this one: <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lfLRuhUSqtQ">taste</a> by betty who</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>-</p>
<p>-</p>
<p>-</p>
<p>It happens on accident and without warning. Maybe Barry was too far gone and missed the signal— maybe they were both too far gone to realize it was this close— either way Barry has just pulled back for a last gulp of air when he feels a sudden splatter on his cheek and knows instantly that it’s too late. It has the same effect as chucking a toaster into a bathtub, his brain shorting out with a gunshot sound and his body reverting to sheer reflex as he tightens his grip on the base of Fuches’s cock and starts jerking hard and fast, too shocked to process anything beyond the literal task at hand. He’s barely aware of the mess being made on his face until it’s all over. He just keeps going until Fuches taps out with an “<i>okay, okay</i>” that finally flips the switch from autopilot to manual control, at which point Barry drops back onto his heels like a puppet cut from the strings. </p>
<p>He’s so disoriented that he almost topples over completely, only just managing to grab onto Fuches’s knees for balance. Fuches has both hands braced on the bed behind him for the same reason, his weight leaned back on his locked elbows while he groans and pants for air. In a state of shock, Barry can think of nothing else to do but swallow, which serves only to emphasize the strange, conspicuous emptiness of his throat. He goes to take a breath instead and feels something thick and ropy drip down over his open mouth, landing on his bottom lip and spilling a slick rivulet onto his chin. When he blinks in surprise, his eyelids are heavy with an unexpected weight clinging to his lashes, while the motion sends something slippery rolling down the slope of his nose. In the moment before it registers, Barry tries swallowing one last time. </p>
<p>
  <i>Yep. Still empty. </i>
</p>
<p>“Oh, fuck,” Fuches rasps. </p>
<p>Barry looks up at him, dazed and reeling. He blinks again when he sees that Fuches is partially obscured by a blurry white stripe painted across his left eye socket, drooling off his eyebrow and onto his cheekbone. He can feel it all over his face now, heavy and warm, the whole gluey mess creeping down towards his jawline in a slow trickle. He can only imagine what it must look like. </p>
<p>“Fucking <i>Christ</i>,” Fuches chokes out, his voice tight and strangled. </p>
<p>He sounds like he’s miles away or else underwater, Barry’s hearing tuned out to an incoherent drone punctuated only by the relentless thudding of his heart and his own ragged breathing. His inner ear tells him that he’s sinking backwards and falling through the floor, but when he convulsively tightens his hands he finds that he still has a grip on Fuches’s slacks, tethering his body and his spiraling mind. He keeps blinking in amazement, his eyes focusing and unfocusing on the splatter over his visual field, hardly able to comprehend what he’s looking at. He’s so used to ravenously gulping down everything Fuches is willing to give him that it never occurred to him that he might actually want to see it— let alone that he might want to have it plastered all over his face.</p>
<p>“Look at me, Barry.”</p>
<p>Fuches’s voice again, muffled and faint. Barry hardly registers it through the haze, his attention focused completely on the slow sticky crawl moving over his lips, pooling thick when he presses them together and then pulled to threads when he stretches them apart. Delirious with fascination, he breaks through the strands with a thrust of his tongue, then curls it into a lick that starts at one corner and goes all the way up and over the arch of his gaping mouth, driving up a load like a snowplow and scooping it inside when he’s done. The taste is so real and so familiar and so <i>Fuches</i>— it’s <i>Fuches</i> who made this mess, who left his mark painted all over Barry’s face like it <i>belongs</i> to him— Barry is sinking, sinking, his eyes rolling in his skull and his jaw going slack in a low, stupefied moan. If he loses his grip on Fuches’s knees he’s going to lose his grip entirely.</p>
<p>“I said <i>look at me</i>.” </p>
<p>This time Fuches punctuates the command with action, seizing Barry by the chin and jerking him up until their eyes meet in the same way that a bullet meets a back. Barry instantly drops the weight of his head into Fuches’s grip, grateful for the support and hungry for the guidance. It’s all he can do to keep his eyes from rolling back again, his eyelids already flagging at half-mast from their burden while Fuches has both eyes wide open and at full intensity, so sharp and so bright and so blue that Barry is dimly glad for his hooded perspective. Sometimes Fuches looks at Barry so hard Barry can feel it under his skin. Now he’s looking at him like he could see all the way down to the bones if he felt like it, only this time the focus is completely on the surface.</p>
<p>“Yeah?” Fuches growls, his gaze scouring every inch of Barry’s dazed, defiled face. “You like that?”</p>
<p>“<i>Hnh</i>— yeah—” Barry pants, his head lolling in Fuches’s grip. “S’good— it feels good—”</p>
<p>He sucks in a startled breath when the drizzle coming off his eyebrow gets caught in his lashes, pooling in the corner of his left eye and forcing him to squeeze it shut in a permanent wink. Before he even has a chance to whine in frustration, Fuches quickly switches his grip, using his left hand to grab Barry by the jaw and hold him steady while he presses the pad of his right thumb against the side of Barry’s nose. Then Barry’s whine turns to a guttural sound of relief as Fuches pushes in and drags his thumb across the span of the socket, clearing away the mess in a long, rough swipe that leaves Barry stunned and blinking in wonderment at his abruptly unobstructed view. </p>
<p>The first thing his liberated gaze zeroes in on is Fuches’s thumb. </p>
<p>Just the sight of what’s collected there is enough to make Barry groan and part his lips, his throat working in a convulsive swallow that echoes up out of his open mouth in a noisy gurgle. He keeps imagining what it must look like all over his face, so white— so glossy— so <i>unmistakable</i>— it’s the irrefutable proof of what he’s done and Barry is prouder to wear it than any other badge of honor. Even so, the more he admires what Fuches cleaned off of him, the more desperate he is to taste it again, his tongue making sloppy darts at his dribbling bottom lip to glean what he can reach. <i>This must be what they mean when they say you can’t have your cake and eat it too.</i> For the first time in his life, Barry finally understands the dilemma.</p>
<p>“What’s a’matter, Barry?” Fuches asks, hoarse. “You want something?” </p>
<p>Barry swallows again, loud and obscene, his glazed eyes drifting back and forth between Fuches’s raised hand and the incredible shape of Fuches’s <i>mouth</i>, his lip curled and his teeth bared in some fierce, unknowable grimace that Barry can feel like a fist wrapped around the base of his spine, or else maybe a collar around his neck. Struck and spinning, he barely manages to muster up a garbled moan in response, doing his feeble best to answer Fuches’s question in the affirmative. The quavering sound makes the grimace split in two, Fuches parting his teeth like he’s about to lean in and take a bite out of something, the intent so palpable that Barry almost tilts back to offer his throat. Then Fuches offers his hand instead, the glistening pad of his thumb angled towards Barry’s mouth.</p>
<p>“Okay, take it,” he grunts. “Fucking take it.” </p>
<p>The words are both a command and a statement of intent, his grip tightening on Barry’s jaw to yank it open as he jams his thumbprint right into the center of the tongue like he’s trying to nail it down. All at once Barry’s mouth is filled with not only the taste of Fuches but also the broad thickness of the thumb itself, the digit shoved all the way inside until the last knuckle scrapes up against Barry’s teeth, stretching his mouth even wider to accommodate it. The impact on Barry’s senses is not unlike filling a water balloon past the point of capacity, his overloaded brain swelling and bursting until it spills out every last drop of rational thought that he might have had left sloshing around in there. All he can do now is close his lips around the base of Fuches’s thumb, his eyes rolling back in his skull while his hands finally surrender their grip on Fuches’s knees, sliding off to fall limply into his lap. The only thing keeping him from total collapse at this point is Fuches’s hold on him, one hand still locked under Barry’s jaw and one thumb still hooked behind his teeth to keep him in place. </p>
<p><i>It’s here</i>, Barry thinks, drowsing in the dark. <i>My place is here.</i></p>
<p>“Jesus,” Fuches grits out. “Look at you.”</p>
<p>The sound of his voice is enough to pull Barry back towards the surface, his eyes tumbling over into the light and swimming towards focus in a bleary dog paddle. The world around him sharpens by sluggish degrees, everything vague and hazy until his gaze finds Fuches, at which point his brain stops trying to process anything else. <i>Look at <b>you</b></i>, Barry thinks, amazed by the heat in Fuches’s eyes, the furrow in his brow, the indecipherable twist of his mouth— like there’s a hurricane of words trapped behind his teeth and it’s taking everything he’s got to hold the deluge at bay.</p>
<p>“Barry,” Fuches says, his voice rough. </p>
<p>“<i>Hnnnh</i>,” Barry answers in a guttural moan, his mouth still fastened on Fuches’s thumb.</p>
<p>He bobs like a top when Fuches lets go of his chin, his vacant head dipping into a nosedive before Fuches grabs him by the hair instead, seizing a fistful at Barry’s crown and raising him back up to keep their eyes fixed on each other. His remaining grip shifts to fill the open space, rotating on the axis of his hooked thumb to curl his fingers in a cradle under Barry’s jaw to support the weight of it. Now he's got Barry’s head caught like a firefly between two cupped hands, a captive spectacle for him to admire at his leisure. More than anything Barry wants to reach out and hold Fuches in return, but his own hands weigh about ten tons apiece and stay hopelessly rooted in his lap, two anchors lodged in the sea bed. He can only drag them an inch at most before they sink back into the cozy silt, too heavy to move any further. He’ll have to find another way to show his reciprocation. </p>
<p>Then there’s a subtle flicker of movement behind his teeth. </p>
<p>Barry’s first panicked thought is that Fuches might be about to take his hand away, and on a primal impulse he convulsively tightens his jaw, digging his incisors into the meat of Fuches’s thumb like a dog refusing to relinquish his favorite toy. It’s not hard enough to bruise, but it’s more than enough to make Fuches catch his breath, his eyes going wide at Barry’s sudden, startling vehemence. One part of Barry wants to immediately let go and retreat in embarrassment, mortified by his own spontaneous action. The other part of him is gripped by the overwhelming urge to bite down until something snaps. He wonders, sometimes, how Fuches could ever let something so dangerous get so close to the parts of him that are so vulnerable. </p>
<p>Barry will never be able to thank him enough for the privilege.</p>
<p>While their gazes stay locked together, Barry uses the last of his willpower to raise his tongue into a deliberate swab around the pad of Fuches’s thumb, his lips sealed and sucking at the bottom knuckle but still not quite enough to contain the subsequent well of drool that immediately floods his mouth in response. It ends up leaking out at the corners in a rill that swells and pulses every time Barry swallows, the runoff trickling down into the hollow of Fuches’s hand to pool around Barry’s chin like blood welling from a wound. Barry is sure that Fuches will recoil from the mess at any second, but instead Fuches only grips him tighter, his fist corkscrewing into Barry’s hair while his thumb burrows into Barry’s mouth until it almost touches the back of his throat— and god, doesn’t <i>that</i> feel familiar, a brush of contact that flicks Barry’s remaining consciousness like a lightswitch and shuts off everything that isn’t <i>this</i>.</p>
<p>Barry is deep in the fog now, his only anchor the thumb in his mouth and the eyes locked with his own. His useless hands twitch and jerk in his lap like two fish stranded in the bottom of a boat, but somehow his tongue keeps working, crawling all over Fuches’s thumb with the focus of a blind man feeling the face of a stranger. There’s about as much drool running down his chin as there is running down the inside of his throat, but Fuches doesn’t say anything about his sloppiness. It doesn’t look like he can say anything at <i>all</i>— like it’s taking all his strength to hold back that hurricane, and if he opens his mouth to let out even one little word then it’ll be just like that box in the story where the lady tries to take one little peek and ends up setting all hell loose and ruining it for everybody. </p>
<p>It’s probably for the best that he keeps a lid on it. Barry is such a wreck right now that he’s not sure he could handle anything Fuches might say in this condition, with that inscrutable look on his face and that fierce, unknown havoc in his gaze. Better for both their sakes not to risk putting anything into words. It’s not like they ever needed words to have a dialogue, anyway. They can say it all with their eyes and their hands and the way that Fuches lets Barry stay right where he is and keep that thumb in his mouth for as long as he wants, until the pad turns soft and pruned and the warm stickiness all over Barry’s face has long since cooled to the temperature of the room. </p>
<p>Sometimes it seems like Fuches can’t get out of there fast enough. This is not one of those times. In fact, for a little while, it almost seems like Fuches might let them stay like this all night.</p>
<p>“Boy,” Fuches says at last, an audible catch in his throat. “You are something else, you know that?”</p>
<p>Barry almost tries to answer before he remembers that his mouth is full. It’s a good thing, too— he doesn’t even know what he was about to say. All he can do is nod his head in stunned acquiescence, barely aware of anything that came after the word <i>boy</i>. </p>
<p>He’s so far gone that he barely notices the actual moment when Fuches takes his hands away. All at once his unsupported chin drops to his chest, his mouth empty and his eyes briefly attempting to focus on the curled fingers in his lap before giving up and going glassy and half-lidded in drowsy contentment. There’s a warm heavy blanket wrapped around his entire brain and it’s so quiet in there. He doesn’t need to worry about anything else. Dazed and spent, he starts to lean over to rest his face against Fuches’s thigh— only to be jolted out of his reverie when a hand unexpectedly blocks his way.</p>
<p>“Whoa, whoa,” Fuches cautions, gesturing for him to back up. “Careful, buddy, you’re a mess.” </p>
<p>
  <i>Oh, right.</i>
</p>
<p>Barry is barely able to curb the urge to immediately reach up and probe his fingertips directly into the thick of the aftermath. He’s astonished all over again to remember that it’s there, scrawled across his face and left to dry like the ink of a signature on a binding contract. It’s enough to make him almost go cross-eyed with the impulse to look at it, but then he redirects the impulse to look up at Fuches instead, his wobbly gaze fumbling about like a hand groping in the dark until he finds what he’s looking for and grabs on tight. To his immense relief Fuches grabs back, holding him there with just his eyes, the only thing keeping Barry from total collapse. Barry doesn’t know how he does it. He doesn’t even know why. </p>
<p>“Wow,” he pants, blinking up at Fuches like it’s the first time he’s ever seen the sun, not so much blinded with awe as he is simply amazed that such a thing even exists. </p>
<p>Fuches gives a huff of acknowledgement, reaching out with his right hand to take Barry by the chin, his spit-slick thumb rubbing at the corner of Barry’s open, aching mouth. </p>
<p>“Yeah,” he says. “Wow.” </p>
<p>After a contemplative beat, he gives Barry’s chin a rough wag and lets him go, tossing his head in the direction of Barry’s dingy apartment bathroom.</p>
<p>“Okay, go on,” he says. “I’ll let you have it first. You need it.”</p>
<p>That much is certainly true. Barry musters a faint nod of assent, the rest of his energy reserved and then poured into the enormous effort it takes for him to get up from his knees, his legs at once both heavy as concrete pillars and flimsy as an empty pair of long johns. Somehow he makes it up to his feet, where he sways in a nonexistent breeze while Fuches steadfastly ignores him, all of his attention now given to the task of wiping his messy hand on Barry’s sheets, cleaning off the worst of it while he waits his turn for the sink. Barry stares at the subtle ring of indentations around the base of Fuches’s thumb for just a little too long before he finally tears himself away and staggers stiff-legged into the bathroom, the door closed behind him with the softest click he can manage. He knows he has to be quick— Fuches doesn’t like to wait.</p>
<p>Too bad he loses all track of the time as soon as he looks in the mirror.</p>
<p>It’s a hell of a view. Barry can’t get enough of it, turning his head this way and that, examining the spectacle from every possible angle so he can take in the full scope of the display. He’s reminded, strangely, of the way his mother used to tilt her head in the mirror when she finished putting on her makeup. Not only is he performing the exact same gesture now, but he’s doing it for the exact same reason— he wants to see how it makes him look. He wants to see every bit of it. Maybe if he looks hard enough, he’ll be able to see what Fuches saw when he looked at him like <i>that</i>.</p>
<p>The forensic evidence tells quite a story, starting with the big picture of the mess itself and going into detail with all the places the mess isn’t. The left eye socket, for instance, is wiped conspicuously bare, while the entire circumference of his mouth has been licked clean, empty gaps in the creamy white that stand out like footprints in the snow. Still, even with these omissions there’s still plenty of mess left, enough for Barry to feel a staggering combination of wonderment and pride as he realizes that this is what he swallows every time, the whole measure taken right down his throat without ever spilling a drop. No wonder it always leaves him feeling so... full. <i>Satisfied</i>. </p>
<p>He wishes he felt that way right now, but unfortunately the absence of the former sensation makes it impossible to fully achieve the latter. The thing is, even if you <i>do</i> choose to have your cake instead of eating it, you still only get to have it for a little while. Cakes aren’t meant to keep. And while Barry did manage to sneak a few bites of this one on the sly, now the rest is about to be wiped off and washed down the drain, leaving him with nothing but a clean plate, an empty stomach, and the memory of how good that cake looked in the mirror. All he can do at this point is make sure that memory counts. Hands braced on the counter, Barry leans in until his nose almost touches the glass, doing everything he can to take a picture with his eyes— anything to make it last.</p>
<p>He almost has a heart attack when the bathroom door is suddenly rattled by a loud, insistent knock of shave-and-a-haircut.</p>
<p>“All right, c’mon, already!” Fuches calls through the paneling. “Sometime today, buddy!”</p>
<p>After that it’s a frantic scramble, Barry slamming on the sink so the hum of the water covers up the rough scratching sounds as he uses the nearest dry towel to scrape off everything from his hairline to his neckline, scrubbing so hard and so fast that he must take the top few layers of skin along with it. It’s the quickest method he can think of and it leaves his whole face stinging and raw, his cheeks burning with a combination of abrasion and embarrassment as he opens the door and slips past Fuches with his head down. </p>
<p>“Sorry, sorry.” </p>
<p>“There he is,” Fuches laughs, trying to catch his eye as he goes by. “Was starting to wonder if you fell in.”</p>
<p>Barry doesn’t answer, just makes a beeline to his phone on the nightstand, where he becomes extremely interested in his complete lack of notifications. He keeps his eyes glued to the icons on his home screen until he hears a noncommittal scoff, followed by the bathroom door clicking shut in Fuches’s wake. Then Barry hastily stuffs the phone in his back pocket before it has a chance to go dark and leave him staring at his own stupid, blank reflection. </p>
<p>They end up sharing their customary nightcap in the kitchen. There’s a noticeable flicker in Fuches’s gaze when he passes Barry his pour— Barry assumes that his face must still be conspicuously flushed from the vigorous cleanup, and he hurries to start drinking so he can blame the whiskey instead. It doesn’t work. Fuches just keeps <i>looking</i> at him. Sometimes he looks at Barry so hard Barry can feel it under his skin. Right now he’s looking at Barry like he’s trying to take a picture with his eyes, glance after glance, snapshot after snapshot, until Barry finally squirms and snaps, “What?” </p>
<p>Caught in the act, Fuches now tilts his head and makes a show of turning towards Barry in open consideration. After a long beat, he smiles and taps the corner of his own eyebrow, then points towards Barry’s in turn.</p>
<p>“You, uh— you missed a spot.” </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>_end.</p>
  </div></div>
</body>
</html>